


A Pair of Blue Pegs

by tryslora



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Curses, First Kiss, M/M, Magical Entrapment, Mates, Snow Globe, Sulking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek and Stiles are trapped with every creature comfort they could possibly need... except a way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pair of Blue Pegs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FairyNiamh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FairyNiamh/gifts).



> This story was written as a holiday gift for fairyniamh who gave me the wonderful prompt of Derek and Stiles trapped in a snow globe. I hope this tale does the prompt justice!
> 
> The characters and world of Teen Wolf are owned by someone other than me; I just like to play with them.

“Oh my God. This is…” Stiles looks around, hands on his hips, taking in what seems to be a studio apartment in the round. Bed. Table. Couch. Television and DVD player. Kitchenette. And glass windows surrounding them completely, snow falling thickly outside. “I’d say impossible, but I’ve learned not to say that, because honestly, it just invites trouble. Do you think that lady was a witch?”

“What lady?” Derek’s expression is almost comically confused before it shifts into a scowl. “There’s no such thing as witches, Stiles. Not like the Harry Potter kinds of witches.”

“You know Harry Potter?” It surprises Stiles every time Derek makes a pop culture reference. Like, since he’s been raised by wolves, he ought to be completely clueless about the way the world works outside of Hale house. “Oh right, the movies. You probably saw them in New York.”

“I read.” Derek’s voice is flat. His arms cross and he looks up overhead. “Get the feeling we’re on display?”

“Like this is a cage and someone’s outside looking in?” Stiles moves closer to the glass, pushing his hands against the curved surface and feeling the chill. “I couldn’t see anything through this snow if I tried. But I know what you mean. I feel kind of naked here.”

He glances down. Jeans. T-shirt. Thick winter jacket, scarf, gloves. “Except not in actuality. The glass is cold, but it’s surprisingly warm in here. Maybe it’s a science experiment to see what two people will do if they’re locked up together long enough? Except they don’t know one of us happens to be a werewolf. You’re not going to get hungry and start chomping on my neck to get some extra protein, are you?”

“Werewolf.” Derek yanks off his jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair before dropping to sit on the sofa. “Not a vampire. And please don’t tell me you’re going to start rambling about sparkling mates or something.”

“Dude. You’ve watched _Twilight_?”

“Erica lives in my house,” Derek points out. “It’s amazing what I get to hear about.”

“Never would’ve pegged Erica for the Twilight type.” Stiles files that information away in a place that might be useful if, honestly, Erica didn’t scare him just a little. She used to be so mild, but then she turned into this Amazonian, statuesque, absolutely strong woman. Kind of like Lydia. Well, if Lydia were tall. Lydia just projects height through self-confidence.

Now there’s an image that appeals to the mental eye: Erica and Lydia. Together. Stiles wonders what that might be like for a moment before he shakes his head. No point in daydreaming about things he’ll never see. “Okay, so, Mister Alpha Dude, tell me… if there aren’t Hogwartsian witches, how did we get here?”

“Think Hansel & Gretel,” Derek tells him. He touches the remote, but the television doesn’t light up. “Or Snow White, or any other fairy tale. Archetypical witches with strong magic that comes with a price, and usually also comes with a loophole.”

“So all you need is your prince on a white horse to ride in from the snow,” Stiles quips. He ducks when Derek throws the remote his way. “Hey, don’t throw things. You might break the glass, and as warm as it is, I still don’t want it to snow indoors.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

#

Three hours later, Stiles is desperately bored. The television is just a box; when Stiles goes looking for ways to fix it he realizes it’s nothing more than paint on plastic. There isn’t even a power cord attached. There are no books, but there is at least food. The fridge is fully stocked and the cabinets are full of any sort of munchy a guy might desire. There’s a spot just past the bed where if Stiles turns the corner there’s privacy and a toilet (thank God), but of course, there isn’t a _shower_ , which is a sort of disturbing thought if they’re going to be here much longer than a day, because Stiles has a feeling it’ll get a bit rank.

After all, if teenagers stink, shouldn’t werewolves stink more? Or is that pheromones? Huh, that would explain the strange attraction all the wolves seem to have for members of the opposite sex. Or same sex. Or anyone, really. Maybe that’s all it is, a soft scent that’s too low for humans to actually _notice_ , even while it’s twisting their hormones up in knots.

Stiles glances at Derek, who is still stretched out on the sofa. “Hungry?” he asks.

“Is there food?” Derek twists around, looking over his shoulder. His gaze narrows when he sees Stiles unloading things from the refrigerator. “Can you cook?”

Stiles huffed, an indignant noise. “Of course I can cook. I’m a great cook. Have to be, if I don’t want to eat takeout all the time, or rely on Scott’s mom feeding me.”

“But she does.”

“She does,” Stiles admits. “But not all the time. I’m an independent person. Besides, my dad needs to eat, and if I don’t cook, he’ll just grab a bag of chips and call it dinner. This way I can get vegetables into him. Sometimes.”

Derek pushes himself to his feet, coming up close behind Stiles and reaching for a box of pasta and a pot. The kitchenette is small, and even when he turns away to fill up the pot he’s still close enough for Stiles to feel the warmth of his body.

Stiles keeps thinking about the idea of pheromones, but he’s not going to ask Derek about them. Because that would be admitting that he feels the effects, and really, that isn’t something he wants to talk about.

Although it occurs to him that Derek can probably tell. Can’t he? Maybe Derek isn’t noticing. Stiles hopes Derek doesn’t notice. Maybe he just thinks that’s what Stiles is normally like. Probably. It’s sort of a perpetual condition, considering that Stiles is seventeen years old and as easily aroused by men as women.

“So, you really didn’t see the woman who was staring at us?” Stiles starts a sauce pan heating and chops peppers and onions to toss into it. “Because you’re taking this all rather well. We’ve been locked up for three hours and fifteen minutes now, and you haven’t snarled, growled, or tried to throw me into the wall once. Or said it’s my fault.”

“I already know it’s your fault,” Derek says mildly. “There’s no point in arguing about it. I’m waiting for you to piss me off more before I shove you up against a wall. If I can find a wall.”

“Over there.” Stiles gestures with the knife until Derek grips his wrist and forces him to lower it rather than pointing past Derek’s nose. “It’s invisible from this direction, but just on the other side of the bed, there’s a little nook for a toilet. So if you have to piss, there’s that.”

Derek grunts, and reaches past Stiles to grab garlic. He starts carefully taking apart the bulb, setting aside several cloves. Stiles sees the pile growing and has to put a hand over it. 

“Whoa, whoa. How much garlic do you think we need?” Stiles asks. “We won’t dare breathe on each other afterwards if you add that much.”

Derek is silent.

“Not that I’m planning to sit there and breathe on you.” Stiles flushes. “Not that there’s much of anything else to do, either. We can sit around. I haven’t looked under the bed to see what’s stored there but really, I don’t want to find anything like what’s under my bed.” The flush intensifies, and he covers it by finishing chopping the onion with a flourish. “Whatever, just give it to me, okay?” He grabs for the garlic and starts mincing it carefully.

“I saw her.”

Derek isn’t paying attention when Stiles glances up. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Stiles asks. He grabs the spatula and stirs the vegetables, heating them up. “I think she cursed us. The question is why. And what that loophole is. And here I am without a computer and yes, I’ve already tried, but phone can’t get any signal here.”

“That’s because we’re outside of everything else.” Derek crosses his arms and leans back against the opposite counter.

“We’re inside.” Stiles points at the curved (and windowed) roof overhead.

“Not the real world.” Derek stares at the window and the snow outside. “We’re tucked away somewhere, and the next step is getting back. Who was she?”

Stiles gives him a look, gesturing with the knife again. “What makes you think I know who she was? She was…” The tip of the knife swirled in the air. “Older. I mean, not old, not in age. She was kind of timeless, all peaches and cream skin and dark hair and eyes, but her clothes, those were old. Like classic.”

“Sounds like your type.”

“Dude.” Stiles raises his eyebrows. “I’m seventeen. Everyone’s my type. But you’re right, her attitude reminded me of Lydia a bit, but her face, that was all—” He stops just before he says it, because it didn’t occur to him until _right now_ what he’s about to say. “She was a Hale,” he says slowly. “Is a Hale. Is a ghost? A long lost relative? But seriously, she had your eyes. And your jaw, only more girl-like.”

He very carefully doesn’t look at Derek. He can feel the way the wolf has stiffened, is aware of the sudden tension thick within the small apartment. Stiles’s skin crawls with it. He sets down the knife, turns slowly. As he reaches for Derek, the other man steps back quickly, out of the way.

“Don’t, Stiles.”

So Stiles doesn’t.

#

After dinner, Stiles runs out of ideas for anything safe or sane to do, and starts looking under the bed to see if anything’s stored there. If a girl sent them here, chances are under the bed is safe, right? It’s not like being in a guy’s room, where anything under the bed is sacrosanct and best left for that dude alone to know about.

He tugs out a cardboard box and opens it. “Scrabble,” he says. “Monopoly. Life. And oh hey, a Ouija board.” Which sounds like a terrible idea. Magic’s what got them into this mess, and Stiles really doesn’t think they need to fuck with the spirits in order to figure out how to get out. 

He takes each game out, setting them on the floor as he unearths more. “Scruples. Sorry. And I think that’s it. So, it looks like we have two choices. We either sit here and stare at the snow falling, which is about the most boring ‘television channel’ I’ve ever seen, or we play a game.”

Derek doesn’t answer.

He’s on the couch, still sitting in the same place where he ate the spaghetti dinner Stiles prepared. He hasn’t said a word, not since Stiles mentioned that the lady was a Hale.

He hasn’t even growled.

By this point in their relationship, Stiles is used to being threatened. He’s used to being tossed around, slammed into the steering wheel, thrown up against walls. He’s used to growling, snarling, and all manner of irritating reactions from the sourwolf.

He might even be used to sulking.

But this… Stiles doesn’t know what to do with this. Derek’s just blank. Silent. The only time he even moves is if Stiles walks by him; Derek growls if he gets too close, but that’s it.

He picks up Life and carries it over to the couch to set it on the table. Stiles ignores the soft growl as he opens the box and sets out the board. “This set is vintage,” he muses. “I think I remember one like it at this cabin we rented one summer when I was little, before my mom died. The cabin was full of games from the 1950s. Mom’s favorite was Monopoly, mostly because she was a complete hotel tycoon and could always beat us. Dad likes Life best. I liked Scrabble, but no one ever wants to play with me. Lydia might. If she ever considered playing a game with me, that is. She won’t even answer Words With Friends requests from me.”

“Shut up, Stiles.” The words come without heat, Derek’s voice low and hoarse.

Stiles ignores him. “Do you want the blue car or the green car? Seems like all the others are missing except pink, and I figured you wouldn’t want that one.” Stiles, on the other hand, decides to be contrary and takes the pink car for himself.

“Blue.”

Stiles puts blue pegs in both the cars and sets them on the start. He nudges Derek, and when nothing happens, he nudges him again.

Derek moves slowly, but he finally does spin the wheel and the game begins. They play in near silence—Derek giving monosyllabic answers when needed--until Derek’s car lands on the Get Married spot.

While Derek spins for presents, Stiles fishes through the bag of pegs. He can see pink pegs in there, but every time he pulls one out, it’s blue. He takes his time, watching his fingers close around a pink peg. By the time he gets it out of the bag, though, it’s blue again.

He shrugs and picks up Derek’s car. “Apparently you’re marrying a boy.” It’s not like the peg color really matters anyway.

Fingers close tightly around Stiles’s wrist and he is forced to drop the car. “Derek, what the hell?” Stiles splutters. 

“Just put a pink peg in,” Derek snaps. “That’s how the game is played.”

“Not this time!” Stiles shoots back. “This time, you’re marrying a boy. Go on, take the bag. _You_ get a pink peg out. I think the game is cursed.”

Derek lets go of Stiles’s wrist, and Stiles cradles it to his chest. Strangely enough, the outburst makes things feel more normal, and he watches Derek go through the bag trying to pull out a pink peg. When he throws it against the window, pegs fly everywhere, but Stiles only sees the blue ones on the carpet afterwards.

Definitely magic. Or cursed.

“Maybe it’s trying to tell you something.” Which might not be the best thing Stiles could say, but there it is.

“I’m a _wolf_ ,” Derek snarls, like that explains everything.

He stalks away to sit on the bed, his back to Stiles, staring at the window. His body radiates _don’t come near me_ so Stiles doesn’t. Instead he spins the dial and moves his own car up to the spot to get married.

All that’s left are blue pegs.

#

Stiles plays Scrabble against himself for an hour. By the time he finishes the game (beating himself 457 to 343), there is less tension in the room and Derek is snoring softly. Stiles glances over to see him stretched out, naked from the waist up. The triskelion is dark against his skin, moving slightly with every breath.

For a moment, Stiles wants to touch it. But that would wake Derek and he’s pretty sure that’s a bad move right now. His wolf has gone from sour to downright cranky.

Still.

There’s only one bed in the room, and as good as Stiles is at staying awake late, he’s bored out of his mind. So he might as well sleep and they can figure this out in the morning. Or whatever time it is, since the light outside hasn’t changed one bit since they arrived.

Stiles skins his shirt off, trying not to feel inadequate. The worst part of being a normal human surrounded by werewolves is that he has to actually work for his abs. Everyone else seems to have a natural six pack and Stiles… Stiles is just happy not to be flabby. He pokes his stomach. It isn’t bad, but it’s far from perfect. Maybe more crunches will help before it’s lacrosse time again.

He slips into bed carefully, tugging the covers up just enough so he can beneath them, stretching out along Derek’s back. He can feel the warmth of the werewolf body again, superheated but comfortable, and as his eyes close, Stiles can’t help but gravitate towards him.

When he wakes, they are tangled. Stiles is curled against Derek’s back, his arm wrapped around him, hand held like a stuffed bear against Derek’s heart. His face is pressed against the triskelion, and all Stiles can smell is _Derek_. His tongue darts out before he thinks clearly, tasting sweat and salt.

Derek stiffens, and Stiles knows the wolf is awake.

The bed shifts and Stiles ends up on his back, Derek crouched over him, pressing him into the mattress. His face is against Stiles’s throat, the burn of stubble rough against his skin. And the mouth: biting, teasing, making Stiles groan and almost forget that this is actually _real_.

Derek draws back and Stiles sees red in his eyes. Werewolf red.

This is it: Derek’s going to rip his throat out.

“Blue pegs,” Derek says, and his expression twists, changes. There is something lost in it now; he winces as he sits back and holds out a hand to help Stiles sit up. The wolf is gone and the silence is broken, leaving behind a confused man.

“Blue pegs,” Stiles echoes. “Derek, look, I wasn’t trying to imply anything. I mean—”

“You’re attracted to me.”

The words aren’t a question, stated as fact as Derek’s gaze rakes over Stiles’s body, lingering at his waist, then at his heart, finally reaching his eyes.

Stiles flushes. “I’m seventeen and bisexual. I’m attracted to anything that looks good and breathes in my direction. You don’t need to worry about me overstepping—”

“It’s mutual.”

“Oh my God.” That wasn’t what Stiles was expecting at all. After years of chasing after Lydia, after years of asking Danny _do gay men find me attractive?_ , Stiles never expected that the one crush who’d turn around and see him would be Derek Hale.

But it doesn’t look like _Derek_ thinks it’s a good thing.

“Why does it look like the idea of being attracted to me makes you want to puke, Derek?” 

Derek’s smile is weak. “Because I need a mate. Because there’s a curse on the Hale family that tests us, sends us into a trial by fire to prove when we’ve found that mate, the one person who’s with us for life.”

“If you’re saying that’s this, then it’s more a trial by snow,” Stiles points out.

Derek laughs. His hands come up, large and rough but weirdly gentle as they cradle Stiles’s face. Stiles can’t breathe as Derek leans in and whispers, “Shut up, Stiles.”

Lips touch lips and a bell rings somewhere in the background.

When the earth moves, Stiles is kind of impressed.

But nothing’s going to stop him from kissing Derek back.

#

There is nothing new about Derek being in Stiles’s room.

There is everything new about Derek being in Stiles’s bed _with Stiles_.

“So.” Stiles lets his finger trace along Derek’s arm because he can. “Mates, huh?”

“Mates,” Derek confirms. “Werewolves are normally heterosexual. It helps keep the line going.”

That… that’s kind of a huge issue, and one that Stiles doesn’t feel really ready to examine. Kids? That’s a future thing.  A way future thing, for a time when they aren’t being hunted by other Alphas or slobbering beasts or whatever else life decides to throw at them. “We’ll figure it out,” he says. “We always do.”

Silence again, but Stiles’s mind is still working and after a while he starts thinking out loud. “So that woman. Was she actually there? Cursing us?”

Derek shakes his head. “Echo of an old curse, as far as I know. My dad saw her when he met my mom. They ended up lost in a cave for a week before she stopped clocking him over the head every time he came near her.”

“Well, we were friends first.”

“And you were already lusting after me.”

“I’m a healthy teenager and you have a body like a _god_ ,” Stiles pointed out. “Can you blame me? So what do you think? Is this going to be happily ever after?”

Derek leans in to kiss Stiles again. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I think it is.”


End file.
